


A Quiet Moment

by Nauthril



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Winter Solstice, Yule, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nauthril/pseuds/Nauthril
Summary: A Yuletide fic for the season. Beleg returns from the Northern Marches and shares some quiet moments with Mablung.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Mablung of Doriath
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	A Quiet Moment

Beleg laid stretched out on the stones by the large fireplace, hands behind his head, a small smile on his face. A flagon of wine later, and he was clearly quite comfortable. The fact he was lying on the ground in flowing formal robes of dark green and silver did not seem to bother him in the slightest. Most of Menegroth had retired from the Yule festivities. As a matter of fact, it was merely Mablung and Beleg in their great hall, now. The hour had grown late indeed.

Even the bards were gone, leaving the halls quiet and lacking in holiday song.

“Most people would use a chair, you know,” Mablung pointed out dryly, a smirk playing on his lips, which turned into a smile. He was feeling rather good himself, having drank his own share of wine.

Beleg merely crossed his feet at the ankles. “I’m not most people, my friend. You know that very well by now.”

He looked for all the world like a sated cat.

“Indeed,” Mablung conceded, lowering himself to sit by the moonlit-haired Elf. He studied Beleg’s face, watching the other gaze at the ceiling. “Missing the stars?”

“I always miss the stars when I am here.” The Thousand Caves was lacking in sky, but it was safe, and magnificent in other ways -which were as good as lost on Beleg. 

“I am glad you came back for the festivities,” Mablung admitted softly, finally sitting and stretching out his long legs at Beleg’s side. “It’s nice not to spend the holiday wondering what trouble you have found.”

“Trouble finds me, actually, not the other way ‘round.”

Mablung snorted in disbelief. “No, my friend. _You_ found that boy in the woods. He certainly did not find you.”

Beleg’s wine embellished smile brightened. “I did! He was quite the brat when he warmed up to me a bit.”

“He’s still quite the brat if you ask me,” Mablung huffed.

“Is that any way to talk of the sick?” Beleg scolded lightly. “Poor fellow has been ill for two days. He has a fever.” Beleg sat up, brow furrowing. He did not like the fever. He had never experienced one himself -at least not from natural infection, but it looked quite horrible. Anything that kept that child in his rooms, wrapped in blankets, was powerful indeed. Her Majesty, Queen Melian, had insisted he would be alright in time, and stronger later. The Second Born children needed to develop their immunity.

This made sense to Beleg, but he didn’t necessarily like it. No, actually it didn’t make sense. He only wished it did.

“He’ll be alright,” Mablung assured, noting the lines of distress on Beleg’s beautiful face. “Humans get these things.”

“Mmm,” Beleg agreed in a low hum, watching the flames on the logs. 

Deciding they were far too drunk for things to be this melancholy, Mablung reached into his robes and pulled out a small package wrapped in silky red cloth. Placing it in Beleg’s hands, he smiled. “This is for you, my friend. Happy Yule.”

Beleg’s nimble fingers made quick work of the strings and he unfolded the cloth to reveal two beautifully made soft, brown leather gloves, light but sturdy. They were perfectly designed for an archer, with reinforced finger pads on his dominant hand. Beleg slipped them on, and flexed his fingers experimentally, clearly very happy with them. “Thank you, Mablung. They’re perfect.”

“You’re spending more of the winter in the marches and I can’t have you missing shots for the numbness in your fingers,” the dark-haired Elf teased. “Your current gloves are a little worse for wear, and I know you won’t replace them on your own. You’ll forget, again.”

‘Worse for wear’ was an understatement.

“I don’t miss my shots,” Beleg insisted, with an eye roll.

“Of course not,” Mablung returned evenly. Beleg _was_ a nearly flawless archer. “But why risk it?”

Still wearing the gloves, Beleg fished around in his robe sleeves. He produced a package in blue silk and handed it over to Mablung with a playful grin. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to give you this. Happy Yule.” 

Mablung unfolded the fabric carefully, revealing a small orb on a delicate silver chain. It glowed blue, bathing the room in a cool light. “Thank you. It’s beautiful…what is it?”

Beleg’s grin increased. “It’s a Feanorian lamp. A Noldo I ran into gave it to me in exchange for a new bowstring. It seemed like something that might be useful for late night writing.”

They both stared at the little blue light, which seemed to pulsate. “It’s lovely,” Mablung breathed at last. 

He set it on the stone, content to let it glow between them. He gazed at it fondly, eyes soft.

“Mmm yes, well… don’t let his Grace see it,” Beleg teased. Anything to do with the Noldor was enough to give Thingol a twitch in his eye at best.

That drew a laugh from Mablung. Beleg smiled quietly.

“When do you leave for the North again?” Mablung ventured, more sober than he had intended to feel for the occasion. He had not meant to bring up Beleg’s imminent departure. He never stayed in Menegroth long, unless forced.

“I was thinking in the next two or three days,” Beleg said quietly, lying back down and pillowing his head in his hands. He stared at the stone celling, tracing the etchings of flowers and wildlife with his grey eyes. “We needn’t worry about it now.”

He yawned sleepily, feeling very relaxed and content to just lounge against the warm stone and doze. He didn’t often have a full belly, and it made him sluggish. It was a feeling he ordinarily wouldn’t like, but within the safety of Menegroth, with the company of his oldest and dearest friend, he allowed himself the luxury.

“Well in that case, you could use more tarts.” Mablung arched a dark brow. “You’re getting awfully skinny.”

It was not completely feigned concern. The North was a true no man’s land in some respects, and Beleg often came back looking exhausted, and worn. Rarely without some injury, even if not serious.

“Hmph,” Beleg huffed. “And you should _cut back_ on your tarts,” he taunted, opening one eye to look sideways at his friend. “Or perhaps you should come with me to the marches.”

“Perhaps I should, since no one else is able to convince you to fill out a decent report on the ventures of the marchwardens. Your paperwork was better when I was with you,” Mablung chided. “Why our liege tolerates your poor vocabulary, I shall never understand.”

“I am merely a marchwarden.”

“Try that with someone else.”

“Thingol does not read them anyway.”

Mablung did his best to scowl, but it quickly gave way to a wry laugh. “No.”

“I don’t write them myself, you know,” Beleg admitted. He was fully capable of beautiful writing, but so were others.

“You’re a menace.”

Beleg chuckled now. His features suddenly faltered, pain flickering across his expression for a fleeting second. A human may not have seen it, but Mablung’s Elven eyes caught all of it. “Your ribs again?”

Mablug was sure he heard a small pained wheeze.

Beleg rolled his eyes. “I’m quite alright. They’re mending well.” Yet the moonlit haired Elf sat up, tenderly putting an arm around his middle. He still wore the new gloves.

“And he’s leaving in three days, he says!” Mablung mumbled to no one in particular, throwing his hands up in exasperation and looking heavenward. He then attempted to level Beleg with a determined glare. “Leave it to you to get battered by a troll before Yuletide. They don’t even _like_ being out in the snow. Even at night, the moonlight bothers their eyes when it shines off it.” 

“You have a good memory, my friend.” Beleg forced a thin smile, still cradling his side.

“You never saw a healer, did you?” Mablung said softly, letting go of his tirade. It was Yule after all.

“I am a healer. There is nothing they can do for me that I cannot do for myself,” Beleg countered simply. “The bones will knit.”

“Not in three days.”

“Perhaps five.” He was an ancient Elf after all, and they were merely broken ribs.

“But you won’t stay.”

“No.” 

“But-“

“Mablung, you are positively _killing_ my Yuletide spirit.”

Mablung’s upper lip curled in wry amusement. “Shall we sing a song?”

Beleg snickered through grit teeth, trying so hard not to laugh. His hands continued to splint his side. “I’d hate to put Daeron to shame.” He smirked. Compared to humans, his voice was beautiful, rich. Compared to his own people, it was the course voice of a warrior, fit for barking battlefield orders and not much else. 

Not that Mablung’s was much better, although he still managed to be a decent enough diplomat. Thus, he was very good at reading those around him, especially Beleg.

Scooting so that he was behind his friend, Mablung gently guided Beleg against his chest, pleased when the other didn’t resist and was rather pliant. He put his hands over Beleg’s, slowly easing them from the other’s side, to be held in Beleg’s lap.

As much as Beleg would never, ever admit it out loud, it felt good to be cared for. He spent quite a bit of time on his own, which was as he preferred it. However, he always forgot how good it felt just to have someone hold him.

Mablung grasped the back of his friend’s hands, threading his fingers through Beleg’s gloved ones. Beleg squeezed back.

They lazed in comfortable silence, watching the flames wither in the fireplace. Mablung would have thought Beleg asleep, except he knew him better than that. “What are you thinking about?” He murmured.

 _When will it be that I don’t return here?_ Beleg gave a small quirk of his lips. “Inevitability.”

Mablung’s grip on his hands tightened, though he said nothing, and something in Beleg’s heart squeezed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Thus ends a little Christmas-y tale. 
> 
> I have yet to name the series, but hopefully a name will come soon. 
> 
> Please review.


End file.
